


All you need is a place to stand

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bondage, Crossdressing, Lapdance, M/M, Ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur will be bloody grateful for his backup in whatever costume it comes in, thank you very much."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All you need is a place to stand

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by Ineptshieldmaid, who knows me far too well, and who wrote the [original Eames in a tartan skirt and combat boots](http://archiveofourown.org/works/142742).

The skirt is tartan, and it rubs, woolly and coarse, against the hair on Eames' thighs as he moves. His boots are knee-high, so there's only a couple of inches worth of skin showing, but he still gets looks. If worse comes to the worst he can drop a hint of drunken Glasgow into his accent, call it a kilt and threaten to headbutt any detractors unwise enough to actually take it up with him, but as much as he likes to avoid unnecessary fights, he feels like that would be both a cliche and a cop-out.

He's wearing a skirt. Deal with it, bitch.

It's easy enough to get into the bar. It's been years since Eames was carded, and the bouncer can't take him, and knows it.

Eames gets past the door, and the noise is a wall, a contrast to the gentle jazz he left behind at the job he's _supposed_ to be at right now, undercover with a drag act, and the complete antithesis of the quiet 3am outside. The crowd in here are screaming and moshing from stage to sound-desk and even back towards the tables and the bar, and Eames never feels self-conscious, but he has a tiny pang of regret for the trousers he left behind and which he could have worn if he hadn't felt like he had to make a point to Arthur.

You _don't_ just call someone in the middle of a job, not unless it's serious, and Arthur will be bloody grateful for his backup in whatever costume it comes in, thank you very much. The only reason Eames changed at all was that floor-length sequins and four-inch stilettos seemed likely to be a serious health-hazard.

'There you are,' Arthur mutters in Eames's ear before he's waded six feet into the building, and drags him backwards towards a table. This is Arthur's gig, and he knows what he's doing, so Eames lets the point man push him into a chair and then straddle his lap, even if it's _completely bizarre_ behaviour. When Arthur leans forward, though, it's only to keep whispering in Eames's ear.

'Don't get overexcited,' he says. 'I need you to go along with this for ten seconds and then tell me I'm too drunk.' He then mouths along Eames's jawline, and his hands find the small of Eames's back.

'Am I going to get an explanation later tonight?' Eames asks, pulling Arthur down into his lap harder, making him grind. His mind is elsewhere, however; finding security, exits, decent-sized bits of furniture in case of the very distant possibility of a fire-fight. Two people that he can spot are carrying, both within striking distance of a man Eames recognises from photos – Arthur's mark, Richards.

'If it goes to plan,' Arthur murmurs. 'If it goes to shit, then I'll tell you when we're far enough away that we've got time to talk.'

'That kind of a scenario, eh.'

'Precisely,' Arthur says, and bites. Little shit, that's going to leave a mark.

'No,' Eames says loudly, pushing him back. 'You're too drunk for this.'

'Fuck off,' Arthur says, _too_ loud, and flings his arms around Eames's neck. 'Take me home.'

'Not on your life.' Eames manages to slide Arthur off his lap. Arthur glares at him, but his eyes are hooded and he's swaying a little (all put on, of course), so it loses some of its usual punch.

'Your loss,' Arthur says, and wanders back to the bar, shouldering his way through the crowd. Eames stays at the table, ostensibly people-watching but more specifically watching Arthur's mark, who hasn't taken his eyes off the point man this whole time.

He gets a text a couple of minutes later, his phone vibrating in the top of his left boot: _can you see richards?_

 _heading your way_ Eames texts back, because the mark is indeed following Arthur, fighting his way through the crowd with a good bit less panache than Arthur managed.

 _stick around twenty minutes? if i leave with him, go home_

 _fuck off, not leaving you stranded_

 _fine, follow if you want. don't get in my way though_

Eames sees Richards' blond head bob through the crush of people round the bar and eventually alight near the messy, once-gelled mop of hair that's all Eames can see of Arthur. His bodyguards station themselves in fairly strategic positions as well, but there aren't enough of them to cover the whole place - Eames marks the obvious gaps in their strategy, and decides that if twenty minutes goes past and neither Arthur nor Richards surfaces, he'll wander a bit closer. He doesn't have to bother - within ten minutes Arthur is practically dragging Richards out of the bar by his tie. Eames waits for the bodyguards to follow and then saunters out after them.

It's instructive, watching Arthur play the seduction game. He leaves absolutely nothing to chance - touching and talking in every way calculated to tell the mark he's interested. And tonight the mark seems particularly keen on the way Arthur sways and slurs, so Arthur plays it up.

Richards, Arthur and one of the bodyguards get into a nearby Mercedes - the mark of a man with more money than taste, Eames always thinks. Arthur and Richards climb into the back seat, the bodyguard hops into the front passenger's side, and the second bodyguard takes a little Nissan that was parked behind the Merc. All on his own.

It's the work of a moment to slip into the front passenger seat.

'What the -' the man says as Eames levels the little H&K compact he's been keeping in his boot at him.

'Just drive,' Eames says amiably. 'Follow your boss, like a good dog.'

'Who are you?' Clearly this guy is new on the job. You don't ask questions when you're being hijacked; you bide your time, button your lip, and wait for an opportunity to turn the tables.

'I'm a good dog too,'' says Eames, mentally rolling his eyes. 'Now, be a good boy, and keep driving. I'm not going to hurt you or your boss, I just want a lift, is all.'

He thinks it's all going to go smoothly and perfectly right up until the guy squints at him, and says, 'I saw you in the bar,' and Eames realises he's been recognised. Shit. The guy's trying to place him, he can _see_ the thought process. 'You were -'

'Ethically opposed to sleeping with my boss,' Eames says, to cut him off. And then, because he can't resist, he adds. 'At least, I am when he's drunk.'

The clever boy goes quiet then, and keeps driving. The Merc doesn't go far, in all actuality, and when it pulls over the Nissan does as well. Clever Boy hesitates before getting out. Eames gestures at him lazily with the pistol. 'Go on,' he says. 'You can even take your keys. I don't want the car - like I said, I just wanted a lift.'

He gets out of the car too, and gets a little too close so that he can pick Clever Boy's pockets. The keys go into the top of his boots, like everything else, and he settles against the wall not too far from the door Clever Boy goes into, and waits.

Half an hour later, Arthur's out of the door, rumpled and with his game-face on, the straight line of his mouth and the curve of his frown telling Eames nothing about how the gig went and everything about how fast they need to get their arses out of here. He steps into the light and produces the Nissan's keys.

'Shall we get the hell out of Dodge?' he asks. Arthur snatches the keys, not asking where he got them (as if he would), and they go. They go for miles.

Once Arthur's breathing has calmed and the tightness of his expression has eased, Eames feels able to ask how it went. 'Get everything you needed?' he asks.

'Technically,' Arthur says, eyes on the road. 'Where are you staying?'

'Is this a 'where are you staying, would you like to be dropped off' or 'where are you staying, because it's about to be overrun with assassins'?'

'This is a 'where are you staying, I need somewhere to crash',' growls Arthur.

Eames gives him the address and sits tight, keeping an eye in the wing-mirror closest to him for any pursuit, and clenching and unclenching his fingers in the fabric of his skirt for want of something better to do with his hands.

'Nice outfit,' Arthur says after a few moments, and the tension hasn't exactly left his voice, but he sounds less like he's about to attack something viciously.

'Thanks,' Eames replies. 'It was what I could throw together in a hurry.' He makes sure there isn't a bitter edge to his voice, but sarcasm is sarcasm. Fortunately, Arthur expects sarcasm from Eames, which is good, because Eames doesn't think he can manage genuine played-straight pleasantries right now.

'Sorry about that.' Arthur doesn't sound particularly sorry. 'Needed your help.'

'I gathered.'

They get off the highway and into the backstreets - Arthur's sense of direction being better than badly translated GPS - and home in on the little house Eames has been renting. It's just a small place, and he only really has it because it has a bed he can fall over in at the end of the day and a bathroom with a mirror he can use to get ready in every morning. But it does have a couch and it does have a kitchen and it does have half a bottle of Johnny Red the last tenant left behind in a dusty cupboard. Eames isn't sure which Arthur's going to need, so best to have them all on hand.

In the driver's seat, Arthur is still all keyed up. Eames has a sudden flash of memory, a job he'd pulled a few years ago. Just a quick one, information needed, before dreamsharing had really become viable for crime. Eames had been out of the military for a few months and down on his luck. He'd known all kinds of clever ways to get what he needed, but in the end the simplest one was pillow talk.

Eames hates seduction in the real world, because he hates it when his body and his mind aren't on the same page. But it had paid, so he'd done it. And afterwards he'd gone to a bar to try and relax, which is where Arthur had found him.

Eames knows, suddenly, why Arthur called him. Not because of the bit before, in the bar. Because he knew what he was going to need afterwards.

They pull into the driveway of Eames's little safehouse, and Arthur turns the engine off. Eames wordlessly produces keys. They go inside. It's all very quiet, and very careful, because Arthur's wound tight and Eames doesn't want him to unwind all at once - he'll crack like a whip if he does, dangerous and delicate.

But beating around the bush does no good either. So Eames lets Arthur put the car-keys down on the mantelpiece and take his jacket off, and then says, 'What do you need?'

Arthur eyes him appraisingly, measuringly, and Eames has to wonder if Arthur's thinking about his wants or Eames's reactions. But in the end Arthur just sighs through his teeth. 'I need a competent extractor,' he says. 'And then I wouldn't have to pull this bullshit by myself.'

'I told you I was in town,' Eames says. 'You could have called me.'

'You've got your own job to worry about. And I have called you.'

Eames is pretty certain Arthur needs to blow off some steam, but he isn't sure if that needs to be a fight or a fuck. He steps in anyway. 'And here I am. So tell me why you need me.'

'I fucking hate seduction jobs,' Arthur mutters. 'I get all …'

He gets all wound up, is what Eames is fairly sure he means to say. Stimulus, motivation, goal, alcohol, misdirection… they all tangle together to make a hell of a knot in your thoughts. These days he's good at putting that knot aside until it dissolves of its own accord - he's not sure Arthur has that luxury.

'You have to know it better than anyone,' Arthur continues. 'If you want to be believed, you don't fake it, you feel it.' He rolls his neck, shaking the kinks out, then adds, 'He got me all worked up.'

Eames eyes him, and can't deny, he looks worked up, like he's mainlined espresso for twelve hours and has three men on his tail. And Eames has seen Arthur in that scenario, so he knows what he's talking about. It didn't end prettily.

'Let me help you down,' Eames says, and he knows he can.

Arthur yanks his shirt-tails up out of his trousers, fingers efficient on his buttons, and he's trying to look like he's still all business, so Eames steps across and takes the job out of his hands. He gets the shirt three-quarters of the way off Arthur, hanging at his elbows and pinned there by his cufflinks, before Arthur decides this is taking too long and pins Eames to the wall with one hand while the other one darts up under Eames's skirt. He's aggressive. Any vague ideas Eames may have had about being the one doing the doing, as it were, dissolve.

'Hate doing this,' Arthur is muttering as he traces the shape of Eames below the tartan. 'Not _you_ ,' he growls as Eames tries to pull away. 'But I shouldn't have to -'

'You _don't_ have to,' Eames points out. 'But there's nothing wrong with doing what you want. You don't need me to tell you you're allowed to do whatever you want, Arthur.'

'I know that.'

'Go ahead, then.'

Arthur's breathing a little hard now, and he pulls away to undo his shirtsleeves and put the cufflinks down on the mantelpiece next to the keys. Then he turns. 'You need to tell me what you won't do,' he says, meeting Eames's eyes frankly. 'You need to tell me _now_.'

He's serious, and that makes Eames wonder a little. He doesn't normally play the kind of games that require rules to be set down first. 'Not much,' he says, shrugging. 'I'll let you know.'

Arthur takes one deep, harsh breath in through his nose like he's trying to keep a reaction buried, and picks up his tie. 'Hold out your wrists.'

Eames does as he's told. Perhaps his gut instinct is to knee the other person hard in the testicles and run when presented with restraints, but then again, this is Arthur. If he can't trust Arthur, what has he been doing working with him for so long?

'You don't like it, do you?' Arthur asks, hesitating before he ties the knot. 'But you said yes.'

'If you need it, then do it,' Eames says, shrugging. 'That's what I offered you.'

'You don't want to know why I want it?' Arthur quirks an eyebrow. Eames is more interested in the fact that Arthur says want, not need, actually.

'Go on then,' he says, still holding his wrists out. 'But there doesn't need to be a reason, does there?'

Arthur leaves the tie draped over Eames's hands, and steps back. He looks at Eames properly, runs his eyes up from the combat boots over the skirt ( _lingering_ over the skirt, a piece of information Eames files away) and up to his shaven head, and then he rubs a hand a little self-consciously over his own neck. 'You know me pretty well, Eames. As well as anyone does any more, I suppose, yeah?'

'Yeah,' Eames allows, wondering where Arthur's going with this.

'You remember how we met?'

'You were in the army,' Eames says. 'Project Somnacin, Arthur, of course I remember.'

'You know how many kills I have to my name?' Arthur asks. 'You know how many ops I ran?'

'Not the official count.' Which is the truth. Eames is fairly sure he knows the unofficial count, though.

'Tell me what you know.'

'I know you had a fairly varied career,' Eames starts, careful. Doesn't want to let too much out. 'Front-line stuff. Black ops. Some sniper work. Bomb disposal. God, but you got around. And then the Project. And then Cobb. I know there's no way in hell I'd go up against you if you had a weapon in your hand, and if someone asked me to take you down hand-to-hand I'd make sure to slip you a damn-near fatal dose of Rohypnol before I tried.'

'Modest,' Arthur says, his mouth turning up in a silent little laugh. 'But so you reckon, I know how to take care of myself?'

'Sometimes you act like you're the only man in the world who can,' Eames says.

'But forget you know all that, and just look at me for a minute, Eames,' Arthur says softly. 'I'm just a little guy. Even dressed in a suit and packing, I'm just a little guy, right?'

And suddenly Eames sees exactly why Arthur wants to tie him up, and has a premonition of what else Arthur is going to want to do to get this out of his system, and the idea fills him with a rush of anticipation.

'You're taller than me,' Eames points out, just to be strictly factual.

'By an inch. You could get two of me in one of your shirts.' Which is an exaggeration, but far be it from Eames to argue with someone's body-image.

'Richards wanted a little guy, hmm?'

'For the sake of the job, I'm glad he did,' Arthur says. 'And I'd do it again. But -'

'You resent using it,' Eames finishes for him.

'People want specific things from little guys,' Arthur adds. 'And those aren't always the things I want to give.'

'Ah, the joys of stereotypes,' says Eames drily, and he empathises with Arthur's problem but he can't quite sympathise with it, because God knows stereotypes work for him, with his particular little talent in the dreamscape. Feeding into stereotypes is his bread and butter. And let's face it, if you boil it down to that basic, stupid level, the one Arthur deliberately played on tonight, there are things people expect from men shaped like Eames as well, and they aren't always his preferences either.

Arthur gives him this look, like he knows exactly what Eames is thinking and doesn't give a shit about the psychoanalysis, because Eames is the one who decided to come on this particular rollercoaster ride instead of letting Arthur repress it. Eames had let his hands drop, catching the tie in his fingers, but he holds them back up again, clasped with the tie tangling and threading around his knuckles.

'I'm horny because I blew a guy in his ridiculous mirror-ceiling-ed bedroom, and now I've been taken home by a guy in a skirt who says he'll do whatever I want. I'd have to be _dead_ to not be horny,' says Arthur, and Eames suspects this is all he's going to get by way of explanation.

'Fair point,' Eames murmurs, because it is rather a fair point, and decides not to push any further on the tying-up portion of the festivities.

Arthur unloops his tie from around Eames's fists and wraps it firmly around his wrists instead. He secures it with a reef-knot.

'Boy Scout?' Eames asks, raising an eyebrow at Arthur's choice of knot. Simple. Efficient. Uncomplicated. And easy for Eames to get out of if he has to.

'I am always prepared,' Arthur replies blandly. 'Now,' he adds, contemplatively, with Eames standing tied in front of him. 'Bed?'

***

The knot in the tie is just a warning, Eames knows that. Which makes it hard not to struggle against it when he wants to grab Arthur and do filthy things to him. But this is, apparently, about Arthur doing filthy things to Eames. And Eames isn't exactly going to complain about that, but the tie around his wrists is playing on his mind. He's kneeling on all fours (all threes, given his hands are tied together at the wrist) on the bed, trying to keep his balance without opening his legs too far - he feels just the edge of vulnerable already, he doesn't want it to go much further.

Arthur takes Eames's boots off, snorting at the handkerchief and the eyeshadow/foundation compact and the H&K too - he checks chamber and gives it a quick and appreciative once-over before placing it gently with Eames's other things, on the bedside table where Eames can see them, before moving out of sight.

'You alright?' Arthur asks, sliding his palm over the cloth of Eames's skirt where it rounds out over his arse.

'Fine,' Eames says. 'Just fine.'

Arthur's fingers twitch at the hem of the skirt, and then graze their way back up under it. 'Still fine?' he asks when his thumb is hooked in the left leg-hole of Eames's underpants and his fingers are splayed alongside.

'Provided you don't break out the whips and chains unexpectedly, Arthur, I doubt you're going to do anything that isn't fine.'

'Noted,' Arthur says, dragging Eames's underpants down. 'Warning required for whips and chains.' He pauses, and then adds, 'How much warning?' in a speculative tone.

Eames snorts. 'Just get on with it,' he says, picking up one leg and then the other, to let Arthur get rid of his pants. Then he returns to his head-down tripod pose, and waits.

Arthur isn't in a hurry to get rid of the rest of Eames's clothes, Eames notes. Instead of removing the skirt, Arthur just pushes it up until it will sit above Eames's hips by itself. He makes a mild, interested noise and drags his fingers lightly over the skin of Eames's thighs. Eames bites his lip at the shivering feeling that produces.

'And you say you're not an exhibitionist,' Arthur says. His tone is neutral, very carefully neutral.

'I'm an exhibitionist if I need to be,' Eames mutters. 'And _you_ say you're not a control freak.'

Arthur ignores that, and instead leans back on his heels - Eames feels the mattress shift before he looks around. 'Lubricant?' he asks.

Eames thinks, realises _no_ , and swears. Arthur lets out a noise that might be a snort or a chuckle, and gets off the bed.

'Wait there,' he says, and pads into the living room. There's a few moments' pause, and despite listening intently Eames can't pick up the sounds of what Arthur's doing, although he can guess - going through his jacket pockets, probably, although there's always the possibility he's going through the kitchen cupboards for some cooking oil as a measure of last resort. Eames hopes not. Apart from anything else, cheap canola oil is just not sexy.

He's tempted to get up and go and give Arthur a hand, but the second he thinks it he remembers he's tied. He's tied up, not tied down - he _could_ get up if he wanted to. He could also undo the damn knot, let's not forget, but …

Ninety percent of control is kept because the person being controlled lets it be. Arthur could have tied Eames up with a spider's web - hell, he could have pushed him down on the mattress and told him to hold onto the headboard, and Eames would have done it, because he offered. Because Arthur _wants_ it like this, and refuses to say he needs it.

'You're a bad influence on me,' Arthur says when he comes back. He climbs back onto the mattress and drops something by Eames's forearm - a foil sachet. Thank God. Not the cooking oil after all.

'Oh?' he asks, instead of voicing his relief. 'How so?'

'If I hadn't met you, I might never have stolen a man's entire supply of condoms and lube in small-minded revenge,' says Arthur, and there's an extremely suggestive noise behind Eames that hints that the packet Arthur has dropped within Eames's sight is just a spare. This is confirmed when Arthur's wet, tepid fingers touch Eames's skin and start stroking.

Eames tries not to jump. 'Oh, you were a felon long before I met you, Arthur,' he points out. 'At heart, if not in practice.'

'Yeah, but I never used to be so petty with it,' and dammit, Eames can _hear_ the smirk, and he wants to shrug out of Arthur's ridiculous, ineffectual, _symbolic_ bondage and roll over and get down to business. But if he does that this is going to end in a wrestling match, and anyway, he held his hands out for this.

Arthur's fingers trace labyrinthine patterns over every tender or ticklish spot Eames has ever had, either his own or someone else's, and he still doesn't seem keen to get straight to the point yet. His hands pause over the tie, and then he flicks the knot loose. He doesn't take the tie away, though, and it becomes even more of a symbol, more of a test. Eames scrunches it between his fingers.

He has to resist the temptation to slip into character. He has a dozen personas that would relish being played like this, or at least probably would if they were in this situation (they haven't been yet, so he hasn't had cause to test-drive their reactions fully. But they're _his_ personas, so if he decides they're into this, then that's that). But Arthur will know if Eames slides someone else in behind his eyes.

The silk of the tie is a weirdly sharp reminder, where it jostles Eames's skin, of Arthur. Arthur's out of Eames's sightlines again, his hands gone too, and Eames focuses on his H&K and on not moving from where Arthur's put him, and he hangs his head just a little and tries to relax into this. Breathes, and sinks into … not the role, but into the situation. Into improvisation. He breathes in, breathes out, and tastes the sudden opening-night anticipation and the rush that goes with it just as Arthur slides his hot, slick hands over Eames's hips, and pulls him back into his lap.

Eames moans, surprised and a little breathless, and then moans again before he can get proper control back over his vocal chords. Arthur, having warmed him up slowly, is giving him very little time to adjust now - spreading his legs by pushing his thighs, touching Eames's cock one-handed under the now harsh-feeling fabric of the tartan skirt, pulling him back with the other hand so that his back is flush against Arthur's chest, his head leant back on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's erection is trapped between them, against Eames's arse, but Arthur seems more interested in Eames's cock and nipples.

Eames goes to pull Arthur's face round, to kiss him, and raises his hands to do so, and he doesn't notice until his fingers touch the smooth skin of Arthur's jaw that he's still clutching the tie.

Arthur smiles against the skin of Eames's neck, and says, 'I can take that away, if you want. I just wanted to see if you'd let me.' He pushes the skirt right away as he takes better hold of Eames's cock, and while Eames is grateful for the loss of the fabric's friction, the sudden rush of colder air takes his breath away a little.

'Bullshit,' he growls, and gets a nip for that. He snorts. 'You can take me down, Arthur, but you can't lie to me.'

'Fine,' Arthur says, muffled with his teeth still worrying Eames's skin and his hands inside Eames's clothes. 'Seeing you tied up _does_ shit to me. Does that make you happy? I want to wrap you in chains and do all kinds of things to you.' The way Arthur says it makes Eames's breath shiver to a halt in his lungs for a second, more than Arthur's hands have done, more than anything else. Arthur only sounds like that about things he's planned. And Arthur makes the best plans.

'Warnings for chains, remember?' Eames says when he gets his hindbrain under control.

'Next time,' Arthur says. 'How about other stuff?' he adds, letting go of Eames's cock in order to drag his shirt off.

'Whatever you like,' Eames says, rolling his eyes. 'As I keep telling you.'

'You gonna let me fuck you?'

Eames does his very best not to sound too eager when he says, 'Yes.'

'With your hands tied back up? With your skirt on?'

Eames could keep saying yes, or he could show Arthur that this is okay, that he's _allowed_. He shakes Arthur's hands off, and swings himself around to straddle Arthur's lap. The skirt falls back down, hanging obscenely over his erection. He fumbles the tie back into place and, with thumbs and teeth, reknots it. It's not very tight, but the symbol's the thing, right?

'Let me show you some of the things I've been doing in the name of my cover story,' Eames says, and, careful of his balance without his hands free, starts to gyrate.

'Oh, so I get a lap-dance now?' Arthur says, but he stretches back a bit, wriggles until he's up against the bedhead, and relaxes into it. His hands come up to grip Eames's hips, one under and one over the skirt. Eames just keeps moving, aware of both his centre of gravity and of Arthur's erection under him. He wants to grind on it, but he's kind of - no, actually, make that _really_ \- starting to like the look in Arthur's eyes when he just glides over him lightly and the skirt hem drags.

'You're wearing too many clothes,' Eames points out. 'I'd take them off you, but my hands are tied, my feet are occupied in holding me stable, and I suspect if I just bite til I rip your undershirt you'll kill me, so you might want to get to that.'

Arthur's breath is starting to come faster as Eames rubs against him, rocking back and forth and circling around, but he does concede to sliding his undershirt off.

'You might wanna lift a bit,' he says, smirking, and reaches for his fly. Eames does - picks himself right up on his knees, because the feel of Arthur fiddling around down there is going to bring things rather more abruptly to a head than he wants if he doesn't get out of the way.

Arthur gets his trousers off, and Eames is not even slightly surprised to find out, when he sits back down, that he isn't wearing underwear. It wouldn't go with the particular character he was playing for Richards, would it. Doesn't matter, anyway - Eames settles back down to the task at hand, which is 'how good can I make Arthur feel without doing my nut all over his lap'. He's not had that much practice at this, despite the weeks he's been working undercover at the bar, but he's been told he's got natural talent. Most of that, really, is the same talent he turns on in a dreamscape or a casino or a con, and he enjoys using it.

There's no music for Eames to latch onto, no external beat, but he's got rhythm and it's not exactly like these moves are complicated. One, two, three, four works just fine.

He likes watching Arthur's face like this, close up, as he sinks into the dance - the stress-lines around his eyes loosen, his mouth slackens. Eames wants to lick his bottom lip, and loops his bound wrists around the back of Arthur's neck in order to achieve that aim.

Arthur's eyes flash hot as soon as he does it - Arthur almost _bucks_ under him, and when their mouths meet Eames uses his arms to keep Arthur in place. And that's when Eames gets it, in a rush of arousal - what this whole tied-up thing is all about, the connection, the intent, that the purposefulness of it _is_ the purpose.

It's leverage, and the thing about a lever is that it has two ends.

Both of Arthur's hands are underneath Eames's skirt now, and his tongue is doing unspeakable, beautiful things in Eames's mouth, and what with one thing and another it's probably understandable that the first touch of Arthur's fingers to Eames's arse goes unnoticed.

The second touch has Eames pulling away (reluctantly) from Arthur's mouth long enough to say 'Go on, then.'

Arthur grins, and does. Oh, he does. Touches become the efficient spread of skin-warmed lubricant, becomes the rolling of latex and the slow-burn-push of Arthur holding himself steady so that Eames, still braced with his arms like a collar - _or a tie_ \- around Arthur's neck, can lower himself. When Eames is fully seated, fully stretched, it takes him a moment to breathe through it and open his eyes.

Arthur's face is wrecked, his mouth bitten, his eyes dilated, and he no longer looks like he needs to beat the everloving crap out of someone. Which is nice, given the first available person would have been Eames. Instead, he looks like he needs to get off. Eames knows how he feels.

They don't last long after Eames has sunk down. He tries to keep the lap-dance rhythm going, but in the absence of music, with nothing but their own erratic breathing to keep the beat, it devolves into the thigh-stretching up-down rut of a man who just wants the end-game. 'Fuck, Eames,' says Arthur, clutching at the skirt, twisting the cloth between his fingers. 'That's it, yeah, _yeah_ , that's it.' It's not the most eloquent thing Eames has ever heard Arthur say, but it's not the least, either. It _is_ one of the most sincere things Arthur's ever said - his voice is shorn of all its layers - and Eames wants to run a hand through his hair, wants to touch his chest, to push at him and caress him, but he's held in place, and he and Arthur are breaths away from another kiss, and _fuck_ , he loves this, he really does.

Arthur's eyes flutter closed when he comes, and he's almost silent. Eames follows him shockingly fast, the sensation ripping through him, and for a second or two they lean together, recovering. Eames thinks his knees have forgotten how to unbend, that his wrists have fused, until Arthur, with enviable bendiness, reaches behind his head to untie Eames's bonds.

They come away suspiciously easily.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. 'You never got your knot-tying Merit Badge, did you?' he asks.

'Fuck you,' says Eames amiably, trying to get off Arthur without taking the condom with him. 'Duct-tape's more efficient anyway.'

'Classy.' Arthur chucks the tie across the room to the bed and starts dealing with clean-up. 'And you just did, by the way. Fuck me, I mean.'

'That joke was groaningly ancient about two seconds after the invention of language,' Eames retorts. 'Originality, Arthur, please.'

Arthur deposits the condom in the bin and wrinkles his nose at the state of the duvet before shrugging and crawling naked under it. 'I think most of this evening counts as 'original',' he says. 'I bet the tips you make are phenomenal.'

'I'd rather be a crap lap-dancer because the job finished before I could get the practice,' Eames sighs, sliding the skirt off and pulling on a pair of boxer shorts with some relief. 'But the mark's got more of a hard-on for the public bar and the pole-dancers than the nice private VIP room.'

'So this is the job that's had you pinned down in this crap-hole town for a month,' Arthur says a little disbelievingly, holding the bedclothes up so that Eames can join him. 'I thought it was something serious.'

Eames rolls his eyes, but gets in the bed. 'Does it help make it more serious if I tell you this guy is about to pull a bank heist that could make what we earned on the Fischer job look like peanuts? Anyway, what the hell was that with Richards? I thought he was supposed to be at his headquarters.'

'He got a tip that the hot thing he's been stalking for the past two weeks was gonna be here tonight,' Arthur says, and smirks.

Eames resists the urge to thump his head back against the wall. 'I can't believe you sometimes. You got _him_ to tail _you_?'

Arthur shrugs, but apparently can't wipe the smug look off his face. 'What can I say, some guys'll do anything for a piece of ass.' He rolls over as if he's about to go to sleep, nonchalant, and Eames has a sudden interesting thought.

'Oh really,' he says slowly, curling in around Arthur and tucking an arm across his stomach. 'So, the reason you turned up in _this_ particular town was?' _Where you knew I was going to be,_ he doesn't add, because Arthur knows he knows that.

'Like I said,' Arthur says, reaching for the bedside light. 'Some guys'll do anything for a piece of ass.'


End file.
